


Perfect

by satin_doll



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Feels, Fluff, Fluffy happy ending, Happy Ending and Everything. Really., Married Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlolly - Freeform, This is a non-angsty little piece, description of childbirth, mollock, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6882397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Molly are preggers, don't have a baby name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I wrote this. Seriously. It just suddenly appeared on the computer and said "Post me!" so I did. I do not own these characters, they belong to their respective creators, and I don't know what they're doing here. I never write things like this! Not beta'ed, full of mistakes (which I'll claim I suppose.)

Molly rolled over and groaned. She felt like a beached whale. Sherlock had bought her every kind of pregnancy pillow made and none of them worked. Sleep was becoming this tantalizing wisp that she chased nightly over rough country; she just couldn’t get comfy enough. She sighed and scooched over to the side of the bed, swung her legs down and waddled into the bathroom, lightly scratching her belly and arse as she went. The one thing she could absolutely count on was her bladder and its need to emptied every half hour.

After her morning ablutions she waddled into the kitchen, where she found a note and no Sherlock. 

_Back soon, food warm in the oven, tea under the cosy thingy. Love you. OX_

She had to smile. He always signed his notes with “OX”, meaning “hugs and kisses” but she always read it as ox - like the animal. Of course, she never let him know that.

Molly checked the oven and found some scrambled eggs and bacon (at which she wrinkled her nose) and a basket of warm bread (which sounded just right...with maybe some butter and some of Mrs. Hudson’s home made jam…) and, on the counter, a pot of tea which was actually still warm under the “cosy thingy”. She fixed herself a plate and a cup of tea and waddled into the lounge. 

The table in front of the sofa was strewn with various papers and magazines, which she shoved out of the way to set her food there. While she munched she stared out the window absently and wondered where Sherlock had gone. He didn’t have a case as far as she knew unless Greg had called him this morning, which wasn’t likely. With her due date imminent, Greg only called if he absolutely had no other recourse. Strangely, Sherlock’s successes had finally had the effect of teaching NSY how to process crime scenes better - at least when Greg Lestrade was involved. Though they could never compare with Sherlock, they were solving more cases on their own without his help, leaving Sherlock free for more private clients (for which he was paid, a huge plus in Molly’s book) and more time for her. Sherlock was keeping his time free as much as possible the last few weeks of her pregnancy. 

Molly sipped her tea, musing about how different things were now compared to last year at this time. The decision to have this baby was not an easy one; Sherlock had initially been terrified. She hadn’t been very enthusiastic about it herself. They had only been together a short time when she discovered that she was pregnant, after all. However, the more she’d thought about it, the more right it seemed; they actually _were_ together, she was getting older. She knew Sherlock would do whatever was needed to provide for both her and the baby, that was never in question. But it would mean such a huge change in their lives. They had both seen what it had done with the Watsons. And though it was well worth it, according to them and everyone to whom she had talked, looking at it from the front end was...frightening. 

But as time went on, a strange thing happened. Sherlock began to be fascinated - both by what was happening to her and the idea of a child. He began absorbing everything he could find on pregnancy, childbirth, and child rearing. Most of the child rearing books he declared were “rubbish” and tossed them out. She had to agree with him there. 

He had an enormous amount of fun getting ready for the baby, though. Shopping for furnishings and necessaries, toys and clothes - all of it had oddly delighted him. She had to admit, he’d done a fantastic job, and their baby was going to have the most beautiful, warmest, most secure and comfortable nursery any baby had ever had. 

She smiled remembering Sherlock’s indecision about the elephant. This one particular toy had caught his attention. He was completely fixated on it - a smallish, grey stuffed elephant with big blue button eyes, the inside of its ears and mouth a soft pink. He bought it early on but then decided it wasn’t right and took it back. He couldn’t stop talking about it and a week later went and got it again. He put it in various places in the room, studying it, moving it over and over, decided it wasn’t right and took it back again. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it and actually went and bought it again. This time he set it on the table in front of the sofa and stared at it for a week. Finally, he stood up, declared that the elephant’s name was Matthew, and put it on a shelf in the nursery. And that was that. 

There were several similar instances. Everything had to be just right, or he wasn’t satisfied and would chew on it until it suited him. She gave up trying to reason with him about anything. But she was happy to see him so involved and most of his decisions were spot on. It was actually a relief to have him take on so much of the task of getting ready. 

As her belly had grown and he took note of the changes in her, something else had occurred. He watched her constantly. She would be engaged in some ordinary task or chore, would look up and find him gazing at her, studying her with the oddest expression on his face. By the time she was really showing, he had begun wanting to touch her all the time. He wanted to be with her wherever she was, next to her, leaning against her, holding her hand or massaging her feet, or just sitting with his hand on her belly. Much of his attention was sexual. He told her her scent had changed, that she smelled different to him and that it was very arousing. After checking with the doctor (who said it was fine and that orgasms during pregnancy were actually a good thing as long as everyone was healthy; something about facilitating dilation and contractions at the end…), their sexual activity took an upswing. Sherlock had been inventive and very careful with her, and it was actually quite nice. She was incredibly sensitive, which absolutely delighted him, and he was forever finding new ways to stimulate her. He told her he found her very beautiful with her belly growing larger, which went a long way toward easing her discomfort over the massive changes in her body. He had surprised her over and over with his sensitivity to her moods also. 

In short, he was being the perfect husband and prospective father, which had made her extremely suspicious at first. After a few weeks, though, she had gotten used to this odd new Sherlock, and had come to appreciate it and be grateful for it. He seemed completely and honestly sincere about all of it. 

Now, during these last days of her pregnancy, he was in a perpetual state of anticipation. They had finally relented about knowing the sex ahead of time, and found they were having a little girl. Sherlock had immediately come up with a name, and he would not consider anything else. He insisted he was right about this. It wasn’t that she objected to the name. In fact, she thought it was quite beautiful and probably the best one. She simply wanted to reserve her option to change her mind. Fine, he said, but one way or another, the name he wanted, _his_ chosen name, was going to be part of their baby. 

Molly was drifting in these musings when the door opened and Sherlock almost literally bounced in. He was smiling, immensely satisfied with himself about something, and swooped down on her with a big kiss, presenting her with a bunch of pink roses. She smiled up at him, thanked him, wondering what on earth he was up to. He shrugged out of his coat, hung it and his scarf on the door, then came and sat beside her, immediately putting his hand on her belly, smiling broadly when the baby obliged him with a huge roll from one side to the other, poking at his hand with a tiny foot. Molly groaned, then smiled at him. 

“She really likes her daddy, I think.” 

Sherlock blinked, kissed her cheek, then took the roses from her. “Should get these into some water right away,” he rumbled.

He had become an expert on tending to cut flowers. Since he had found out that she adored pink roses, there were always roses in the flat, sometimes several vases full of them. The color and the scent seemed to soothe Molly, and she loved having them around. Sherlock had been sceptical in the beginning but once the roses were there, she caught him several times moving them around, rearranging them. He was always the one who took care of them. 

The rest of the day was quiet and uneventful. Sherlock was absorbed in research of some kind or other (it was amazing how uninterested she had become in subjects which had fascinated her before), and she was strangely unfocused, at least outwardly. It was as if she had slipped into a state of dormancy, as if she were simply...waiting...and everything else was idling in neutral. 

Late in the afternoon, Sherlock decided that she needed something to eat, but the thought of food was not appealing to her. She sat up from her spot on the sofa - where she had been ensconced most of the day - and suddenly was sitting in a pool of water. It was like her bladder had suddenly burst and several days worth of urine had just gushed out of her. 

She was very calm. She felt a huge contraction - which didn’t hurt at all, just a muscle tensing and releasing - and when it was done, stood up and walked serenely into the kitchen, where Sherlock had just finished making her a sandwich. He turned and began to say something to her and then stopped, frozen, his mouth still open. 

“Molly?” He noticed her soaked gown, the way she held herself a bit awkwardly. 

She simply looked at him and nodded. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered what he would do. The thought of him becoming hysterical and rushing around being stupid like men in the movies was sort of...distasteful to her. She truly hoped that wouldn’t happen. 

It didn’t. He wiped his hands on a towel, calmly walked to her and kissed her forehead. “Any contractions yet?”

“Just one big one.”

He squeezed her shoulder gently, slid his hand down her arm, took her hand. His face was serious, his voice calm, but his eyes were sparkling with excitement. 

“Let’s get you dressed then.”

Getting ready was simple. Sherlock helped her clean herself up (she had to stop him from tasting the amniotic fluid dripping from her gown) and she slipped into some clean underwear, and pulled a long soft tunic top over her head. Sherlock held her sweatpants as she stepped into them, her hand on his head for balance. Feet into some shoesox (a miraculous soft shoe that had a sturdy sole for walking and a slipper type upper that was heaven for her swollen feet), a quick brush to her hair, and she was ready. Her bag was set to go by the door to the flat. She had two more mild contractions before they were actually out the door.

Her contractions so far were mild, which surprised her. She had been walking around already dilated four centimeters, and Doctor Morrison had estimated that the baby was a good size. She was grateful things were moving along slowly so far - but she knew how quickly that could change. 

Sherlock helped her with her coat, slipped his on and they were on their way. He had already phoned Mrs. Hudson, John and Mary and the hospital. They had considered home birth but given Molly’s age and the fact that this was her first, Sherlock had insisted on the hospital. 

The taxi ride was short and uneventful. A few hard contractions which she had breathed through with no difficulty. Preregistration had taken care of any delays at the hospital and she was quickly shown to a birthing room and settled in. Sherlock was allowed to stay for the examinations and prep (he insisted) and soon it was just two of them. He sat by the bed and held her hand, breathed with her through the contractions, which remained fairly mild although they were getting stronger. There was no pain, just the tightening of her belly with each one. In between, she rested, listened to Sherlock’s voice as he recited poetry to her (when did he decide on that? she wondered) and occasionally rubbed her belly through a contraction. 

Molly was strangely detached from everything. It was as though her mind had disconnected from her body, so that her body could do its normal work without interference from her brain. She drifted between contractions, held on to Sherlock’s hand, listened to his voice. It was a tremendous comfort to have him there. After one particularly long, hard contraction, she turned her head to look at him, sitting calmly next to her holding her hand, and felt tears in her eyes. 

“I love you,” she whispered. “I’m so glad you’re here.” 

He smiled at her, smoothed her hair back from her face, kissed her hand. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

The nurse was in and out, checking vitals, feeling the progress of the contractions - which were coming quickly now - and checking dilation. Molly was at eight centimeters when a spasm hit her that convulsed her entire body. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she pulled her knees up, bent into nearly a fetal position. Sherlock gasped and stood up, looking toward the door but unable to leave Molly - she was grasping his hand so hard that it hurt. It only lasted a few seconds. When it was over, Molly was completely limp, her forehead damp with perspiration. She lay back with her eyes closed, breathing hard.

Sherlock eased his hand from hers and ran to the door, yanking it open. He spied the nurse a short way down the hall and yelled for her, then ducked back into the room and ran to Molly. She was still breathing hard, but otherwise seemed to be okay. She looked at him and mumbled,”..on my knees…” and tried to climb out of the bed. 

“No, no, no!” he told her and tried to hold her down.

Molly glared at him, furious, yanked her hand out of his. 

“Yes! Want to get up…” and tried to climb out again.

The nurse trotted into the room, went to Molly and helped her sit up, infuriating Sherlock, who tried to knock the nurse’s hand away. Nurse was having none of this. 

“You stop right now, or I’ll have you out of here!” the nurse yelled at him. Sherlock was so shocked he simply stood there and glared back at her. 

The nurse then helped Molly onto her hands and knees. Molly was withdrawn into herself; she didn’t speak, didn’t look at anyone. She just panted, quick, sharp breaths. 

“She’s in transition already, but she can’t push quite yet. She needs at least another centimeter before we can let her do that, and the baby hasn’t dropped yet. Doctor Morrison is on his way. What we need you to do is stay calm, rub her back if she asks for it, otherwise stay out of the way.” The nurse adjusted Molly’s gown, straightened the bed a bit. Her voice was back to its usual neutral tone, but she offered no apology to Sherlock. “She might be a little snippy. That happens at this stage. Do what she asks you to do. She’ll try to push; when she wants to, get her to breathe through it, don’t let her do it. I’ll check back with you in a few minutes.” She was out the door before Sherlock could respond.

He knew about transition. He’d thought he was prepared for it. The reality was quite different from reading about it though. It was unnerving, almost frightening to watch. Seeing her eyes roll back that way, watching her entire body freeze up - it was like watching a seizure. Which, in a way, he supposed it was. Her body was trying to push the baby out of her. Unfortunately, not all of her body was in on the plan yet. 

What also surprised him was her insistence on getting up on her hands and knees. The books he had read hadn’t mentioned that, although the nurse seemed to think it was normal. 

He looked at Molly on the bed, her huge belly hanging down, eyes closed, panting like an animal, and was awed at how primitive the act of giving birth actually was. His respect for women suddenly grew enormously. His love and respect for Molly overwhelmed him. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes, wiped them away. 

Molly groaned, began panting harder, though the breaths were shallow and sharp. This time when the spasm hit, she grabbed his hand but remained on her hands and knees, arching her back. When it was over she suddenly laid down on her side. Sherlock brushed her hair back from her face. Her eyes were closed and she took a few deep breaths, seemed to relax for a minute or two. 

Suddenly her eyes popped open and she drew in a sharp breath. There was no spasm this time; she simply made an O with her mouth, her eyes widened more and she pushed herself up. 

“She just dropped. Get the nurse. Now,” she said, her voice very small. Sherlock had just reached the door when it opened and Doctor Morrison slipped in. He saw Sherlock and smiled, went to Molly immediately. 

Then things got crazy.

Doctor Morrison ran to the door and opened it, called out, “She’s crowning!” and ran back to Molly. He raised the head of the bed, raised his mask up over his mouth and nose, positioned Molly’s legs, put her feet into the stirrups at the end of the bed. Two nurses ran in, one pushing a cart with tools and gauze and and various other items on it, which she positioned beside Doctor Morrison, the other carrying cloth items and pushing a small plastic container furnished with a pad and cloth in the bottom of it. 

Sherlock was doing his best to stay out of the way, to keep watch over Molly, who seemed to have reverted back to calm, relaxed, detached Molly, for which he was very grateful. Then she suddenly spasmed again. She grabbed for his hand, gave a very loud groan, and her face grew red as she scrunched it up with effort. This time her eyes didn’t roll back in her head. She was pushing, and this time it was okay. 

“Ah, that was a good one, Miss Molly!” said Doctor Morrison. He gave every impression that he was enjoying this tremendously and Sherlock wanted to smack him.

There was a calmer minute or two after the push. Molly looked up at Sherlock and suddenly grinned and his heart leapt for joy. He grinned back at her, kissed her hand. 

“Okay now, with this push, I want you to bear down…” Doctor Morrison said gleefully. Sherlock decided not to smack him after all. 

When the spasm came, Molly raised herself a bit from the bed. Her face grew red, but the look was more of concentration than effort, and the sound coming from her was more of a growl than a groan. It seemed to last a very long time to Sherlock, though it wasn’t more than a minute. 

The doctor took a tool from the tray beside him and did something - Sherlock couldn’t see it but knew it was the episiotomy. He glanced at Molly, knowing she hated this procedure but it had to be done. It was over in seconds and with a loud yell, Molly made one last hard effort...and suddenly Doctor Morrison was saying “Ahh…there she is!” and there was a small sound like a cat mewing - and Sherlock realized that it was over. His child, his daughter, was here. 

Doctor Morrison placed the baby on Molly’s stomach. Molly was propped on her elbows her eyes riveted on her baby. Sherlock looked at the tiny, squirming pink creature lying on the sterile sheet the nurse had placed there, and could hardly breathe.

Doctor Morrison looked at Sherlock and spoke softly. “Dad? You want to do the honors?”

Sherlock moved to the end of the bed, took the gloves the nurse handed to him, slid them on. Doctor Morrison held up the umbilical, pointed to the right spot, and gave Sherlock the snips. Sherlock hesitated just a moment, glanced at his baby and beyond at Molly’s shining face, and snipped the cord. There was some blood, but not as much as he thought there might be. Doctor Morrison was blotting Molly, ready to put in the few stitches she needed, waiting for the placenta to drop. 

Sherlock removed the gloves, moved back to Molly’s side. The nurses had taken the baby to the side for her Apgar and cleaning up. In a very short time, they had her swaddled and brought her back to the bed, smiling. “Ten out of ten,” the nurse said and handed the tiny bundle to Molly. 

Molly took her baby, Sherlock’s baby, and held her close to her breast. Sherlock leaned over and looked for the first time into his daughter’s eyes, and knew he was lost forever. _This_ _is_ _mine_ , he thought, and felt something take root in him, something he knew would grow and swell over time into a fierceness without equal, the existence of which he had been unaware until now. 

Sherlock looked down at Molly, calm now, exhausted but relaxed and realized, fully realized at last how very much he loved her. He thought he had known before. She was unlike anyone he had ever known, the strongest person he had ever met. She was everything. He knew that. But now...now she was a part of something even deeper: his partner in creating a new life. This baby was hers too, and even if he would never fully understand the differences between a mother’s love and a father’s, he knew he fully, finally had some understanding of the love between the two of them. 

Molly handed the baby to him, his child, his daughter, and he held her to his chest, looked down into that tiny face, and smiled. “Hello there,” he whispered, unconscious of the tears running down his face. 

******

Molly was in the hospital for 24 hours, then she was home. The first two days were quiet; all of them needed rest, and there was a no visitors rule until the third day. On that third day, Sherlock slipped out of the house while Molly and the baby were napping, on an important errand. This was one of the most important errands of his life, and he wanted everything to be perfect. His first stop was the bakers. His second, the silversmith.

When Sherlock arrived home, Molly and the baby were still napping, though he knew they’d be up soon. He prepared everything, then sat down and waited. 

Molly walked into the kitchen still yawning. The baby would need to be fed soon, but she had a little time before then for a cup of tea (herbal) and maybe a bite to eat. She glanced at the table and frowned. There was a box there, a beautiful dark wooden box with a delicate silver clasp and hinges. Sitting atop it was a small card with her name on it. She walked to the door and peeked into the lounge. Sherlock sat on the sofa, quietly leafing through a magazine. 

“Sherlock? What’s this in the kitchen?”

Sherlock looked up from his magazine and shrugged. “Something for you, I think.” 

Molly turned back into the kitchen, stood looking at the box. Sherlock’s impromptu gifts were usually unusual, but also usually right on target. This had to be something baby-related. 

She felt Sherlock behind her, turned to him with her brows raised. He simply gazed down on her with that maddening blank expression he was so good at using when he didn’t want to answer questions. She sighed and went to the table, picked up the box. 

The box itself was gorgeous and obviously expensive. They would have to have a talk about that later. She lifted the delicate, ornate clasp and opened it. 

It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. The inside of the box was lined in rose colored velvet. Nestled in the velvet were two pieces of silver. One was a tiny vase shaped object. The other was...a flower. 

Molly’s breath caught and she turned slowly and looked at Sherlock, who was still standing by the door gazing at her seriously. She turned and carefully placed the box back on the table, and slowly lifted the flower from its velvet nest. 

It was a silver rose. Every petal was separately wrought and then placed, and each was a perfectly rendered duplicate of a real rose petal. In fact, the entire piece was made with the same exactness, right down to the thorns on the stem. The leaves with their veins, even the separate stamen and the pistil inside the petals, along with the sepals surrounding the bloom were exactly like the real flower, as if someone had take a small rose and dipped it in silver. The little vase was just big enough to hold the single stem. It was the single most perfect, exquisitely beautiful thing she had ever seen. It made her want to cry just looking at it, but she was also perfectly aware of what it symbolized.

There was a small card tucked into the box as well. Molly pulled it out, her hands trembling, and opened it. 

_It has no scent, but I wanted it to last. Love, Sherlock._

A sob escaped her before she could stop it, and she turned to Sherlock crying as if her heart were broken, though that was certainly not the case. She threw her arms around him and let the tears come, and he held her tightly, stroking her hair, letting her cry.

Eventually the sobs gave way to sniffles and Molly looked up at Sherlock, her eyes glistening. 

“When…?”

“Weeks ago. That’s where I was the other day, checking on it. The artist owed me a favor.”

“Oh, Sherlock! It’s so...perfect!” Molly pulled him down, kissed him soundly. 

“There’s more,” he said, and took her hand and led her into the lounge. Sitting on the table was another box, similar to the one in the kitchen, but smaller. 

Molly gasped. “Sherlock, you didn’t!”

She picked up the box and opened it, and inside this one was a tiny rosebud, rendered with the same perfection and delicacy as her full blown one. The little card inside this one simply said, “For my little Rose.”

“We’ll give it to her when she’s old enough.” Sherlock watched Molly carefully, waiting for her reaction.

“You know, this is blackmail.” Molly looked at him with mock severity, and shook her head.

“Yes. Well, what do you think?”

Molly sighed and looked at him. Devious, exasperating, beautiful man, she thought. And she loved him exactly like that.

“I think we’ll name her...Rose. We sort of have to now, don’t we.” Molly set the rosebud back in the box, set the box down on the table. She slipped her arms around Sherlock, rubbed her face against his chest. It was his name, the one he had wanted from the beginning for their baby girl. 

And it was perfect.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The depiction of Molly's labor and delivery are taken almost blow by blow from my own personal experience. It's not typical, but then when do these characters ever do anything that's typical. My experience wasn't typical either. Just wanted to clarify this in case anyone is wondering about it.


End file.
